Cleaning office buildings overnight.
Caring for elderly patients during the day.
Learning how to survive exhaustion because I never really had another choice.
Then came the hospital room.
The smell of antiseptic.
The doctor speaking carefully like softer words somehow hurt less.
“He needs surgery within six months,” he told me quietly. “Without it, we’re looking at irreversible damage.”
“How much?” I whispered.
“With everything included… around two hundred thousand dollars.”
I remember gripping the edge of Noah’s bed because suddenly the room felt too small to breathe inside.
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